


force majeure

by Zekkass



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Dark, Gore, Gun Kink, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Time Travel, Topping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25738873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zekkass/pseuds/Zekkass
Summary: The Quintessons won and Cliffjumper is barely a survivor. He escapes to the past and runs directly into pre-war Academy-going Shockwave and his labmates. Horror ensues.
Relationships: Cliffjumper/Longarm Prime | Shockwave
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	force majeure

**Author's Note:**

> Arco, my dear friend, commissioned me to write some time travel veteran!cliffjumper/young!shockwave and I went ham on the concept. I used the alternate universe tags because in a sense it is - just by Cliffjumper showing up he's changing events.
> 
> Warning: this is dark, extremely dark. Cliffjumper is not in a good place and Shockwave remains himself.

Cliffjumper spits blood - actual blood, an organic material that functions like some kind of inefficient oil, colored a pale blue - from his lips and grins at his captor. His arms are bound up in chains and this should be the moment of his death, except that he can protect himself.

The offending Quintesson has darted back from him in an instinctive pained jerk, and its mask is astounded - pain is not common for these creatures. Its thinnest tentacles still drip blood.

This is not how it is supposed to be. Cliffjumper jerks at his chains, glaring at the Quintesson. If he were someone else he'd let the monsters inject him with the virus that will destroy his will and force his coding to accept new imperatives; new masters.

Everyone he has ever known has been infected.

There's no point to fighting anymore, not when the monsters have won.

A chain snaps, he lunges, and the Quintesson is screaming as he grabs a handful of tentacles and uses them to smack the monster against the floor, over and over until it splatters. He wipes - smears - blood off of his cheek and breaks himself out of the rest of the chains. He doesn’t have weapons in his subspace and the monster’s guards are coming and he doesn’t have a plan. Escaping won’t help, not if he’s the only one left. So.

He snaps a shard off of the monster’s mask and holds it like a shiv, then runs towards the door, meeting it as it spirals open, the shiv going into the stomach of the first guard. He kicks it all the way in, grabbing for their gun.

Violence is his only refuge and he takes to it gladly, killing his way down the corridor, lost already in its curving path. He picks an opening at random and flings himself through, firing wildly at whatever’s inside - oh, Autobots. Autobots with dead optics and collars and the shots won’t kill, so he hates himself and backs out, then runs as fast as he can.

More guards, but this time he finds an actual Quintesson guard, with guns strapped to the side of whatever the hell its body is, and he yells as he fires into it, making it explode and take the little bastard with it. The other guards don’t like that, but that’s okay. Cliffjumper survives at the cost of a dangling forearm and he bursts into another opening just for a moment to jam it back into place.

But _this_ opening leads to rows and rows of consoles and test tubes and a whole gaggle of those monsters and a glowing triangular portal.

Smart option would be to blow it up and kill the entire squad of the freaks.

He starts by killing them, making sure each one is thoroughly squashed before he skips the smart option and just leaps into the glowing portal. Wherever it goes, whatever it does, it can’t be worse than this.

//

When Cliffjumper lands, the disorientation forces him to purge, and by the time he's done there's a concerned voice and a hand on his shoulder.

" - help?"

His audials are glitching, must be, wherever this is - he looks up into blue optics and an open face and he flings himself to the side. All of his electronics are jammed, or broken, because that's a datanet trying to force itself on him and that's a shuttle-frame bending down with confusion in its optics and he jerks up, staring around at an open square, some kind of Cybertronian city but there's solar light and everything bathed in yellow.

Instinct and fear take over and he runs, not trusting himself to transform with a busted arm. Not trusting that there will be roads despite the evidence of his optics.

The Quintesson portal did work, it took him somewhere he doesn’t recognize - there are no Autobot sigils, no Decepticon sigils, just dozens and dozens of different mechs who give him curious and worried looks as he runs. Dozens of mechs with no weapons on display. _Civilians._

And then there’s someone he _does_ recognize. Barely.

Shockwave is standing at the corner of some intersection, holding a briefcase. His frame’s wrong, flimsy where it shouldn’t be, plated where it shouldn’t be. But it’s Shockwave, he’d recognize those antlers and that optic anywhere.

By now he’s out of smart moves, his arm slick with his own energon, so he simply collapses in front of Shockwave and drops into emergency stasis.

//

Medical clinics on Cybertron tend to have a fairly even distribution throughout population centers; exceptions given to mining operations, gladiator pits, and other similarly dangerous occupations. However, even that effect is offset by how dangerous locations tend to supply their own in-house medics.

Altihex, however, is different. At least, that’s what Shockwave understands from examining maps of the other cities on Cybertron. There is an abnormal clustering of medical clinics around Altihex’s Academy. The Academy has its own medical division, of course, but...

There are names that come up in conversation relating to this topic. Most recently: Wheeljack. Starscream.

The primary conclusion he takes from this analysis? That the medical clinics clustered around the Academy operate less on the premise that they are to repair ‘bots, but rather that they are a kind of moral improvement. Yes, says the city. The Academy has had some rather explosive failures - but it doesn’t need to be closed or changed, as there are plenty of medics on hand.

Therefore, when a red ‘bot with extensive damage to its frame and a crazed look in its remaining optic collapses at his pedes, Shockwave gathers it up and returns to his own laboratory space.

Unfortunately, Starscream is present when he walks in. He glances up, glances down, and does a double-take.

“What is _that?”_

“A heavily injured minibot that also possesses extensive military modifications,” Shockwave answers, carefully setting his charge on his table and unpacking his medical supplies. Triage: stop the flow of energon, assess the damage, repair or apply nanites.

“Yes, thank you, I have optics, what is it doing here?”

Shockwave considers answering, then discards it, busy with his work.

Starscream, unfortunately, is also driven by his curiosity. A drive Shockwave understands but dislikes in others, particularly when they are as abrasive as Starscream is determined to be.

“Shockwave,” Starscream says, already at his side. “Is this an experiment? I’m beginning to suspect you injured the poor thing on purpose - “

“If I were to injure a mech this gravely I would prefer to do so within a laboratory setting.”

“Right, yes, why is it here? I’m sure the medics are achingly bored and would love to have a new patient.”

“It recognized me.”

Starscream’s field - always noisily broadcasting - shows surprise. Perhaps Shockwave should be offended, but he’s too busy examining the patch over one of the minibot’s optics. It’s bolted in, difficult to remove. Should he remove it? For the first time he wishes he had a medic’s scanners, so he could easily see what lies beneath.

He glances at his scanners and repurposes one of them, extracting an answer: there is an optical unit under the patch. Which indicates... too many possibilities. The single most likely conclusion is that wherever this minibot came from, it wasn’t a place with ready access to repairs. He needs to know if there are any returning starships from combat zones, or - unlikely - convoys from the wilderness between the cities.

Except neither one of those sources would explain the permanence of a bolted in patch. It won’t be easy to remove. Perhaps the starship was on a very long campaign, or the convoy stranded?

He needs more information, and his repair work is finished. Assuming the minibot only fell into stasis due to energon loss, then revival won’t take long provided a source of fuel. He hooks up a line, tapping a claw against his table, thinking.

“You should restrain it,” Starscream says.

“We do not possess restraints capable of holding it. I would have to weld it down, or otherwise damage this table.”

“Meaning you’re begging for injuries. Don’t be stupid, we can replace the table.”

“Starscream, return to your station.”

“No. Have you even searched its subspace?”

“The most efficient means of extracting information would be through conversation,” Shockwave says, giving Starscream an annoyed look. He’s not in danger - not enough to warrant treating this minibot like a prisoner.

Blue light catches him by surprise and there’s movement as the minibot springs to its pedes, a _gun_ in its hands. He’s caught off-guard; has no idea what to do. He hears motion behind him, and the minibot’s gun tracks something behind him - Starscream?

With one hand the energon feed is torn out of its arm, and the minibot speaks: “No one move.”

//

Shockwave. Starscream. Decepticons everywhere, but not a sigil in sight. He should shoot to kill just on principle, but _that_ war is long over. Still - it’s obvious Starscream’s had some training - his wings are back, he’s ducked behind a console, and he’d be tough to hit. No weapon, though. Sloppy.

Shockwave, too - it’s like he’s been sent back to a nursery. No weapon, no defensive moves, just a curious optic. Which, honestly, if not for the lack of armor it would feel like all the other times he’s surprised Shockwave with a gun.

Then there’s the shuttle frozen in the doorway. Skyfire, he thinks. That’s a civilian who has no idea what to do with an armed mech.

He magnetizes it to his hip, deciding to notch down the tension.

“Do any of you know who I am?”

“A deranged minibot,” Starscream spits from behind his cover.

“No,” Shockwave says. “Do you expect us to?”

“You can come in,” Cliffjumper says to Skyfire, deliberately relaxing his stance, holding his gun in one hand. He’s not sure how to answer Shockwave, not sure how much to reveal - but fraggit. He’s sore. He’s tired. He’s not surrounded by monsters. “Yeah. I know who you are, thought it would go both ways.”

“Why?” Shockwave asks. Behind him Skyfire’s slowly entering the lab, hands held up with palms out. That’s an organic signal, one that almost makes him tense back up - but Quintessons wouldn’t use that one, it’s not universal to all organic species. It probably means Skyfire’s studied organics at one point.

He’s almost overcome by the mad urge to shoot them all; Starscream first because it doesn’t matter who he is now, he betrayed them all. Skyfire because he reminded him of the Quintessons. And Shockwave - 

“Forget it,” Cliffjumper says. He needs exits. This room obviously hasn’t been built with warfare in mind, with only one exit and no windows. He makes the check quickly and if anyone had moved, he would have shot them. They don’t. He doesn’t. He gestures with the gun. “Starscream, leave. Skyfire, follow him. Don’t let him come back in.”

“I’m interested in - “

The shot grazes his wing; close enough to his original intent that Cliffjumper won’t count it as a miss. It makes them all jump, it makes Starscream shriek and lunge, and surprisingly it’s the civilian who catches him and drags him from the room. It almost makes Cliffjumper feel sorry for Skyfire; he watches the door close and only lowers his gun again when Starscream’s shrieks go away.

Shockwave hasn’t moved after his initial startle. His antlers are up and his optic is focused and even though he’s seen the look before this time it feels naive - Shockwave isn’t still because he’s planning some kind of counterattack, he’s still out of _fear._

Isn’t he?

“We need to move,” Cliffjumper says. He doesn’t have time to figure out Shockwave all over again. “Take me to one of your hidey-holes before the guards get here.”

“Tell me your name.”

Already the script’s off. Shockwave as he knew him wouldn’t have asked that or risked getting shot again. Shockwave should have asked - nothing, he obviously doesn’t have enough information yet even if Cliffjumper’s betraying himself with every spoken assumption. This Shockwave - he’s leaning forward now. Just a little, but the motion is enough for Cliffjumper to twitch his gun back up.

“Name later. Move now.” Deny him information until they’re safe, because if this is actually a stalling tactic - 

Antlers flick, and Shockwave turns without a word, leading him out. Guilt rises out of nowhere, chiding him for breaking - what? The naivety?

Frag if he wants to think about this. They need to move before Starscream gets his revenge. Cliffjumper lowers the gun, forcing a more relaxed stance as he follows Shockwave. If anyone’s watching it’ll be obvious this isn’t above-board but this is the best he can do.

It’s not far. There’s a lift - enclosed instead of open, because this is a civilian facility that doesn’t understand how security works. There are massive floor-to-ceiling windows that he could break with a sonic pulse. There are more civilians, mechs who give him friendly, curious looks and don’t look away when he scowls. He’s making a scene just by existing and Shockwave’s quarters are a relief - until he gets a look at them.

Wartime strips away excess. Becoming a spy puts it back, but only for the sake of the cover. Cliffjumper never saw Longarm’s home, but he saw the carefully chosen accessories for his office. A few elegant magnets that conveyed class without giving anything personal away. A cover shouldn’t count for clues to a personality, but it’s all Cliffjumper has: Shockwave never had the chance to personalize his space in the conflict with the Quintessons.

The tidied datapads aren’t a surprise. The toolbox isn’t either. The clear containers with delicate specimens within still aren’t a surprise - Shockwave had always had a creepy edge to him. The shallow bowl filled with pitted and chipped orbs is, because he has no idea what it’s for. The hung projection of a numerical puzzle on the wall is and isn’t a surprise.

The door hisses shut and Shockwave turns, all but leaning forward again.

“Who are you?”

That’s what Cliffjumper wants to ask.

“Cliffjumper.” No point to ranks when the whole structure is dead. “Does the door have a lock?”

“Am I a hostage? It does.”

He checks it in quick glimpses and locks it. “You aren’t a hostage. I need answers before Starscream gets back with guards.”

“There’s only a low chance of interruptions,” Shockwave says. “Starscream will leave ‘the problem’ to me, because I brought it to the lab. Skyfire doesn’t approve of me, and may lodge only a token report with campus security.”

“... Are all of your optics defective?” The question is out before he can catch himself because it’s stupid, stupid! How blind are they?

“Plural. How did you know? - To answer your question, the implied one, Starscream and I know how heavily modified you are. Skyfire doesn’t. I don’t know if Starscream will tell him.”

In an oblique way Shockwave is trying to tell him that they have time for questions. To satisfy his curiosity. Fine.

He holsters his gun and leans against the wall and for the first time since he escaped the Quintessons he feels crushingly tired. It’s not real, his frame doesn’t need to recharge, but here he is in something approaching safety and he wants to stop. Shockwave will never offer aid without something in return, however. He’s a fool if he thinks he can stay here without answering his questions.

“Your name is Shockwave. You hold the rank of Decepticon Commander where I come from, and the rank of Autobot Prime, but that was a lie. Decepticons and Autobots were at war in my dimension - I’m an Autobot. That’s what this symbol means.” He touches the scarred symbol, doesn’t slow down. “You went undercover as a spy and became my boss. You became a spy instead of some flunky because you could climb the ranks without blowing your cover. And you didn’t, not until our lives were threatened.”

Here he finally falters, memory overtaking speech. The crush of sharkticon frames with ever more climbing over their corpses. The way his guns were running out of ammunition and energy. The way he was beginning to miss. How calm Longarm sounded as he told Cliffjumper to prepare to escape. The sound of a transformation sequence, deeper and longer than anything he’d ever heard before.

He’d been there. He’d watched Shockwave emerge from Longarm briefly before folding down into a tank. There hadn’t been time to process the betrayal or do anything but escape, driving and climbing over the Sharkticon corpses and firing wherever that great cannon hadn’t been able to reach.

In that moment, that first glimpse, Shockwave had been beautiful, a monster rising out of his boss and friend, an existence that made everything strange about Longarm make sense.

 _This_ Shockwave isn’t that. There’s none of the lethality or intelligence, not yet. He’s even painted a pale shade of purple, not the deeper shade he’d gotten used to once Shockwave had left Longarm’s colors behind.

“May I assume that my counterpart is deceased?”

“Yeah.” Cliffjumper says without inflection. “Everyone is. If you have Quintessons here, kill them before they kill you.”

“There are none here. We have neither of those factions you mentioned.” Unexpectedly: a touch. A clawtip on his cheek. Cliffjumper takes his time looking from the claw to the arm to Shockwave’s optic.

Accusations die before they can leave Cliffjumper’s vocalizer. He raises his hand, traces the claw before taking the other and bringing it up. “How did you know?”

“I guessed,” Shockwave says, and it’s so - Cliffjumper takes that step forward and leans against him, resting his weight against Shockwave’s thigh. Their sizes are a cruel joke and if Shockwave says anything he’ll leave. But it’s nice to feel a familiar field and indulge in the fantasy of being safe.

If he closes his optics he can still see Shockwave’s frame rip apart.

“Were we in a relationship?”

“You’re not him,” Cliffjumper says. “He wouldn’t have asked that.”

“Then what would he have asked?’

“... He would have teased me. Told me I should ask for what I want instead of hinting. Offered some claws to - “ He shuts himself up, half turns to press his face to Shockwave’s plating.

“... I’m afraid I can’t offer my claws for anything involving delicate wiring yet. I haven’t figured out fine control yet.”

What? He looks up, and from this angle he appreciates the smooth line of Shockwave’s plating. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh. I wasn’t forged with claws. These are a recent addition after an experiment turned violent. Before you try to make any judgments - I chose these. Once I master them the precision will be finer than they would be with standard hands, and they double as weapons, which will be useful.”

Cliffjumper snorts. “Only you would trade out hands for claws.” It’s easy to forget himself when Shockwave’s right there, acting like himself.

“It’s a logical choice. Would you like some energon? I have some stored here for late nights.”

Easy to agree, and then to find himself sitting on Shockwave’s berth drinking fuel and feeling almost like he’s home.

“I would like to make something clear,” Shockwave says, claws wrapped around his own cube. “I am not your original Shockwave. I doubt I will ever have the same experiences he has had. Regardless of whether it’s another dimension or time travel, I cannot become him.”

“... Yeah. I know.”

“Good. With that stated, I want to know everything about you, your original place, and additionally I want to interface with you.”

Cliffjumper looks at him. “... In that order?”

Shockwave’s optic glows brighter. “Of course not. Touch calmed you down, and I would like to make you feel safe staying here.”

It’s the stupidest idea Cliffjumper’s had today. He doesn’t _do_ casual interfacing. Never has, never will. And Shockwave just made it clear that he’s not who Cliffjumper expects. But - but Cliffjumper knew that already, every similarity stands out for how jarring it is.

He wants this.

“I’ll top,” he says, draining the cube and tossing it to the floor. “Lie on the berth.”

Shockwave subspaces his cube and lies back, antlers forward and optic trained on him. His field betrays nerves that _his_ Shockwave never shared, ever. Even moments before his death he projected calm and determination.

Cliffjumper growls at the memory and clambers onto his chest, bending over his helm to take one antler gently in his hands and nibble at it. Shockwave’s so big he winds up half-sitting on his neck, and he’d feel ridiculous except that Shockwave let him up here, let himself be vulnerable.

When he bites at the juncture between tines Shockwave cries out, pleasure/pain naked in his field and there’s the click of his panels opening. Easy. Too easy. Cliffjumper licks the bite and nuzzles his helm, stopping to look at his optic.

The thought that this optic might be Shockwave’s original, and hasn’t been replaced due to shattering from wartime injuries - it makes him smile. It makes him touch around his optic, feeling the delicate metal just under the lens. It makes him rest a thumb against the optic and press, gentle-gentle until he feels the beginning of too much, and Shockwave hisses soft surprise when he stops.

Shockwave’s claws are wrapped around his waist. He pats one, tracing around the optic.

“Scared you, huh? I’m not gonna shatter it.”

“I don’t quite believe you,” Shockwave says and that’s the most vulnerability he’s heard from him, ever. He laughs and leaves his helm alone, stroking just under it instead, where Shockwave would have a chin if he had a mouth.

“Let’s start here, then. You’ve got glossae. I’m gonna open my valve up and let you lick me out.”

“I - am?”

That gap between words is all the provocation Cliffjumper needs to make this the kind of hellish experience Shockwave always gave him, the soft promises as he’d pierce him, the pain and the pleasure. It’s not fair, not for either of them, not that this Shockwave is alive and so young, not that Cliffjumper is alive and ready to kill him for making him feel this way.

One smooth motion and his gun is out and pressed to Shockwave’s optic, threatening shattering again. The claws around Cliffjumper’s waist tighten and then - deliberately - loosen.

“Glossae out or I’ll shoot.”

Just under Shockwave’s helm, where it meets the throat, plating slithers open and his tentacled glossae unfold, curling out to tickle his wrist.

His doesn’t move his gun. He shifts forward, opening his valve panel, letting his spike out. The gun stays steady the entire time.

“Are you scared?” No, no, he needs to give him an order, make those glossae get in his valve. But he wants to know.

Shockwave’s voice is dotted with imperfections, fear marring that control: “Yes.”

“Glossae in my valve. You can lick my spike too. Make it good.”

“I - have never done this before,” Shockwave says, but his glossae is moving, the root of it finding his valve after an abortive lick, tendrils of it climbing to his spike and wrapping around it.

“Yeah,” Cliffjumper says, and his voice isn’t perfect either, the power and pleasure getting to him. “Yeah, me neither - frag! Like that!”

Shockwave freezes - and resumes and his glossae in his valve feels amazing. Like he’s being spiked but it all fits and it’s all moving, flexing against nodes and curling and bunching up where no spike could. His hips jerk and he makes himself hold it together, keeps the gun pressed to Shockwave with iron control.

“I - I bet this is messing you up,” Cliffjumper says with a moan. “Doesn’t - even hurt.”

Shockwave’s voice is quiet: “Will it?”

“Yeah.” Cliffjumper says, and he works his hips, riding Shockwave’s glossae. “Yeah - nn - you always made it hurt.”

“ -- Why would I do that?” Little breathy sounds from Shockwave, like he’s some kind of organic that needs air to talk. Except he does, they need atmosphere to - he’s thinking and he doesn’t want to be.

“Because - “ He cries out as the first waves of an overload hit. He moves the gun from his optic and strokes an antler with it as the pleasure rides him. Short little barrel of a gun against a slender pale antler that would snap if he grabbed it wrong, and if he shot it the shards would fly everywhere and he overloads all over Shockwave’s glossae and neck with a cry.

He lets himself fall back on his chest, legs open around Shockwave’s head, gun down.

He lies there, panting. Shockwave slowly withdraws his glossae, but he feels the gentle lap as Shockwave cleans him - them - up.

He takes the time to recover, waiting for the feel of Shockwave’s glossae to disappear, and only when it does - he turns and crawls down Shockwave’s chest, unsurprised to see Shockwave’s spike out already. It’s huge, like always, but a purple so pale it’s nearly a pastel violet, and the biolights shine a gentle pink. If he weren’t used to the size it’d be intimidating but as it is, it’s just cute.

He touches it, strokes up and down its side.

“W-what?”

“I told you I’d top,” Cliffjumper says. “I get to ride you before we’re done.”

“I - how - you won’t fit!”

The naivety strikes him right in the spark and he grips Shockwave’s spike to steady himself, crushes it a little in his hand just to make that pain flare in Shockwave’s field, remind him where he is, what he is, what he’s lost. He lets go and climbs up.

“You have no idea what I’ve been through,” Cliffjumper says, and he doesn’t turn around, can’t bear to see this Shockwave’s optic as he lowers himself down on that spike, his legs spreading and valve opening and opening further that it should except he’s been modded, the only indulgence he ever let Shockwave do to his frame and make permanent.

Shockwave must be getting a magnificent view of his aft, and he hopes - 

He rides the pleasure and pushes himself as far down as he can, even the mod not enough to let him take all of Shockwave, still a few inches too short, because Shockwave’s just that big and the plating of his torso bulges out, going as far as it can. He’s full. He’s full and it’s the wrong Shockwave but the ridges are the same and when the claws come to hold his legs and hips that’s the same.

What Shockwave intended - modded to take him as far as he could - was to make him feel small, helpless, like he’s Shockwave’s toy. He’d said it, whispered with Longarm’s voice while he fragged him so hard he couldn’t walk.

He’d hated it, hated Shockwave, loved him for knowing everything about him and using those levers to make him scream. He’d given Shockwave back what he could, tore off an antler, bit everywhere he could, told him he loved him because he did.

All this Shockwave does - 

is hold him.

It’s gentle, the way his claws curl around him. He rocks in him, not thrusting, and the rise of pleasure now is slow, like it’s something they’re sharing, and they are, and Cliffjumper makes little noises different from before because this is so familiar and so different he doesn’t know what to do, and Shockwave doesn’t let him take control back, his grip tightens and Cliffjumper doesn’t get to ride up and down, he just has to take Shockwave’s slow methodical motions and then one thrust and - 

They overload together, and Cliffjumper screams.

//

Shockwave’s curled around Cliffjumper, stroking his tiny little horns. He’s comfortable, interface array sending warm signals as everything prepares for another round.

If he were thinking, he’d call Starscream back and tell him that he’s in danger, he needs a guard to take this soldier away to wherever they take traumatized veterans.

But that wouldn’t answer his questions, would it? And he has never seen a mech wear damage so openly, let alone to the point of letting it dominate in the berth. He’s never been afraid for his life before. Well, rationally, he has acknowledged that the chances of death have been high - but not like this.

Cliffjumper makes little noises as he turns in his recharge, and Shockwave lets him move, watches his face.

How could his double ever let Cliffjumper leave? Death, of course, but if he were in that position he would have conquered death simply to follow Cliffjumper here. So - what prevented him from doing so?

The fear - newly learned - speaks to him, reminds him of what nasty rumors he’s heard about those strange aliens known as Quintessons. He halts a physical reaction and focuses on Cliffjumper.

Wherever he came from, however he got here, Shockwave’s made a decision: Cliffjumper is going to stay.


End file.
